


You betcha by golly wow

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Can they pls just talk, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), First Kiss, Getting Together, Gratuitous Lord Byron poetry, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, Like talk u fools, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24407341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: Crowley makes a huge mistake moving out to South Downs with the angel. One mistake only Aziraphale can fix.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 242





	You betcha by golly wow

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for this fandom and I wanna thank my friends @lannnnnnnnnaaaaaaaaa (IG) and @afhyer on Tumblr for beta read this.

Crowley had hoped. He really, _really_ had. The cottage in South Downs had every single trait to become a New Eden and _that_ should've been a gigantic red flag. New Eden, Old Eden. Fertile ground for _sinning_. 

When Aziraphale had squealed in joy suggesting him to leave his flat and to move with him to Sussex, Crowley hadn’t thought about it twice before _ngking_ for a couple of seconds - some shrug here and there - before _blurting_ a casual yes. First, because in his books, what Aziraphale asks, Aziraphale gets, and second, because he can’t think of a better way of sending a glaring “fuck off” to Gabriel and Beelzebub who according to Eric's latest message were on more amicable terms nowadays. It wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest if they were still trying to make them pay for getting away. 

Heaven and Hell be damned-- _blessed_ \-- _whatever_ , if they thought they could lay a single ethereal finger on the angel again. A faint throb of pain lodges under his breastbone, exactly where his heart is supposed to beat when he lets it. The fire at the bookshop is still too close, his own failure parading before him in raw nightmares so he turns off the organ for the day. 

To Crowley’s credit it takes him only about a week to realize the monumental mistake he’d made. 

It all had started well enough, with just one lamp being broken in the trip down to Hampshire. He considers terrorizing the moving blokes, but it’s easily dissuaded by the angel. Aziraphale had insisted in moving out like _proper humans_ even though Crowley had fussed relentlessly, been dead set on miracling his plants over.

Looking in retrospective, he should've known better. Demons are supposed to be crafty and cunning, and something about having wiles up their sulphur-reeking sleeves. But when it comes to Aziraphale, Crowley finds himself most often than not with a fumbling brain and stuttered thoughts, overcompensating with a loose body posture and excessive sauntering. 

The first night at the cottage had thrown the first hint that maybe, just maybe, his life had taken a turn for the surreal and not in the best of ways, all things considered.

The shiraz reaches their blood streams almost as quickly as it's summoned, bottle after bottle piling up next to the roaring fireplace. Aziraphale suggests poetry and Crowley indulges him even when books are so _not_ his thing. So he rambles on, plucking a few verses Byron had long ago whispered to his ear. 

"... _then battle fro Freedom wherever you can,"_ he says wielding a sword made of nothing _, "and if not shot or hanged, you'll get knighted_." Crowley tries kneeling in a maneuver full of effect, just to end up with his face buried in the couch. Not his best moment, but he’s past caring. 

"Well," Aziraphale drawls, a hint of mischief in his tugged up lips, "perhaps we were not knighted but at least we were also _not_ hanged. Really suiting, my dear, thank you for your performance." The angel raises his glass, spilling half the content onto the carpet. Neither of them notice.

Crowley pushes himself up and lands on the couch unceremoniously. "Capital chap, that Byron fella," he mumbles as an afterthought.

For a moment Crowley catches the glimpse of a frown on Aziraphale's face. "Yes, well, I didn't know him like you did, didn't I?" the angel says, testily. "I wasn't in England back then."

Crowley is already scratching the line of alcohol intoxication, but he doesn't fail to catch the dry tone of those last words. He quirks a brow. "'S ev'rything all right?"

Aziraphale seems startled, a light blush dusting over his cheeks. "Yes, of course, dear boy-- I, I envy you, that is." The angel shifts in his chair, with a smile Crowley remembers to have seen in Warlock's face when caught stealing cookies. "Byron was such a great writer."

Crowley gulps his drink and thinks nothing of it. "Your turn angel, and it better be good."

Aziraphale giggles and stands up, reciting a sonet, while Crowley tries his best to look nonchalant and miracles some willpower to force his mouth not to twist in a telltale smile. 

This is good. Fitting. An unexpected peace he can come to terms with. Knowing this is the best outcome he could've hoped for without pushing his own wishes down the angel's throat. Something he's not doing. Never. 

Shakespeare is followed by Tennyson and when Aziraphale stammers over familiar words, Crowley’s well and truly sloshed, ready to witness that ridiculous magic act the angel is so proud of. Aziraphale picks his coin, and bends and Crowley knows what’s coming. But he’s so _not_ prepared for what happens next. The angel trips with the crimson ottoman, something that wasn’t there two seconds ago, _was it_ ? Crowley's eyes go wide, at least as wide as nature allows it. Aziraphale lurches forward and he’s falling. Falling in Crowley’s direction. _Oh shit_. An inch closer with every passing second and the demon barely has time to react, sprawled as he is on the couch. Crowley sucks in a very ragged breath, because he’s about to take a plunge into unknown waters. When everything finishes Crowley finds himself with an armful of drunk angel. And wonderfully terrified. 

"Oi, _Az- Azzer_ \- angel! You uh, you okay?" 

The angel has plopped gracelessly making the couch squeak with their combined weights.

"Tickety boo, m'dear," Aziraphale says, shamelessly slurring, a vapid smile on his beautiful face. His head rests on the demon’s shoulder. Perfect fit. As if it belonged there. 

Crowley’s hot. Fever hot and he feels like boiling in his own skin. He takes a breath and pushes it out his mouth, loud enough to puff. What an inconvenient organ the heart is, he thinks, as he feels it stuck in his throat. Or maybe that’s just an expression. Yet that’s exactly how he feels. 

The angel's face is just inches away from his, blue eyes fluttering while the only thing Crowley can do is stare. Breathless and dumbfounded.

Aziraphale starts snoring. 

Panic settles in Crowley’s mind, transpiring into his voice. "Hey! Hey, angel! Sober up!" He kicks his own inebriation off, surveying his surroundings like a trapped beast. 

An awful realization dawns on him, then. He doesn’t have anywhere to go, anywhere to escape from the tide of feelings that always barge in unannounced whenever Aziraphale gets too close. Not this time. 

He debates what to do until the half of his brain that isn't fried realizes he’s still a demon. He can miracle the angel back on his bed with a flick of his hand and toss into oblivion what happened. Apply the in-case-of-emergency drill he’d mastered through the eons and tuck every inconvenient feeling deep, deep down. 

He snucks a glance at the peacefully sleeping principality. It’s pretty odd. Aziraphale almost never sleeps, yet Crowley gets it. Exhaustion is one hell of a sleeping drug, he’s been trying it for the last six millenia. Nevermind. It’s something Crowley can manage. 

_Innit_?

His heart soars feeling the warmth of the angel’s body, chest rising under the ridiculous vest he always wears. It’s so tempting. To let himself be and embrace and be embraced in this new beginning, to kiss and be kissed in return, but he’s rambling and _Satan- God- Anybody help him_ because he’s fallen into the same delusions and he can’t do this again. He can’t- _won’t -_ scare Aziraphale off just for not put his foot down on the breaks. 

Crowley inhales, deeply, taking a few extra seconds to breath in the distinctive lavender scent and the much more subtle ozone gist of the angelic essence. He grounds his molars and pushes himself to the task.

Ten minutes later, already in his bed, he dreams. And he doesn’t have to close his eyes this time.

* * *

It’s such a nice house, Crowley has to admit it, but the splinter of a doubt pokes at him every now and again. Especially at times like this. 

Organizing Aziraphale's books in the new shelves takes almost the entire morning, mainly because the angel refuses to use any type of divine intervention for the task, claiming he doesn’t want to give Gabriel reasons to gloat over how much he needs miracles to survive. Crowley offers his help, now that he’s unpacked the three things he’s brought with him. His minimalist style had left him with barely nothing to do, and laziness is, after all, a sin. As a brand new hellish outcast he's taking in the hard task of try his best to be _good_ , just to annoy Beelzebub out of their corporation if they were still keeping tabs on them. 

"Thank you so much, my dear." Aziraphale opens a new box filled to the brim with worn out books. 

Crowley snags one that reads _Tess d’Uberville,_ before Aziraphale snatches it from his hands, flushing with a culprit look. The demon makes a mental note to google it later. 

"Honestly angel, was it necessary to bring all these books with you?"

Aziraphale looks astonished. "Well, of course it was! I wasn't going to abandon _them_." 

"You're not abandoning them. They're books. Things," Crowley says, intently. He takes another book from the box and shelves it, absentmindedly. "They’re not going to hate you for it."

Aziraphale scowls at him, which comes as menacing as an angry pupper. "It's easy for you to say it. I don't see you'd had to part with anything to begin with."

"Ditched the throne." Crowley shrugs.

Aziraphale stomps with his Oxfords, and Crowley has to repress a grin at how utterly adorable he looks when crossed.

"You told me you didn't even like it! You told me you bought it just to bother Hastur!"

"Yeah, yeah, but that's not the point,” Crowley says with a smirk. “The point is you need to get rid of some stuff. I'll send you some Marie Kondo's videos. You'll like it."

“Marie who?” Aziraphale shakes his head. "Nevermind,” he continues, “but if I have to get rid of something so shall you."

"Uh, sure. Anything you ask."

The angel scans the room before closing the distance to a corner. "What about the statue you're so fond of?"

"No." The answer pops off Crowley’s mouth like a spring, before he can even give it a thought. _Fuck_. He bites the inside of his cheek. 

Aziraphale looks at him wide-eyed. "I thought you said anything."

"Pick another thing." Crowley miracles himself a glass of wine and takes another book, trying to divert Aziraphale’s attention. Praying the angel’s curiosity isn’t piqued enough to ask. Because he doesn’t know what to say. 

Apparently it works.

"Fine. This odd paperweight."

"Done." Crowley snaps his fingers and the paperweight disappears from the realm. 

Aziraphale goes back to unstack a pile of books, sorting them by some weird system unheard by any librarian, Crowley's sure of it. He takes a sip from his glass while turning the pages of something called _Pride and Prejudice,_ but miss Austen only seizes half of his attention. Why it had been so difficult to let the bloody thing go? Crowley sighs in defeat. Because he’s a sap, that’s why. 

"You know, dear,” the angel says, eyes fastened to his task, the hint of a smile twisting his lips.“I always liked that statue of yours," and then he adds, “it reminds me of that one time we visited Ufizzi, remember?”

 _Satan’s bollocks._

"Of course, angel, how could I forget?" Crowley almost spews the words but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. How could he forget, indeed? That summer in Florence had become a rather frequent memory in Crowley’s mind through the years. Something he visited whenever he was feeling particularly wretched. A walk down sun-bathed streets, a blooming city full of art, bright blue eyes staring at him from behind a glass of wine...

"May I ask why you added those wings?" The angel approaches to the sculpture yet again, touching the stone ever so slightly, as if it could shatter under too much pressure. "I daresay the original wasn't like this."

Crowley blushes, his stomach making a funny little twist. _Blasted human organs_ . He takes a sip from his glass, stalling, because the answer is too inconvenient. And more than a bit _inappropriate_. 

"It's a battle, don’t you see?" Crowley finally offers, keenly, and _who was he really trying to convince?_ "Hell’s triumph over Heaven. All very demonic."

Aziraphale ponders the answer, arm crossed over his chest, a hand clutching his chin. "So this fellow right here is supposed to be you, dear?"

"Right. Catering to my pride. Increasing my sin quota and all that," Crowley grins showing off his teeth. He draws a breath of relief, and drinks his wine. 

Aziraphale humms. "So this chap under you would be me?"

An undignified sound escapes Crowley, some wine going up his nose. It's really fortunate he doesn't need to breathe, because his corporation can't deal with the choking. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale rushes to his side, trying to palm his back. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“I’m fine, angel, I’m fine!” Crowley splutters, cheeks beet red. “Let’s have lunch, shall we? We can go back to your books after eating.”

He straightens rolling his back in a serpentin movement. 

“Jolly good, dear, I think you'll enjoy what's in the stove,” Aziraphale says, heading to the kitchen. 

The smile the angel regards him with, leaves him feeling particularly weak at the knees. Off-kilter is an understatement. 

* * *

Crowley's on edge. He'd had to reign himself in at every step, just to not trip over his own forked tongue and give himself away. He's utterly and completely knackered. And Aziraphale isn't making things easy.

Satan be blessed, that blasted angel is pushing his buttons without even knowing it. One little thingie, one word, one touch out of place and Crowley's sent spiraling down, _down_ , trapped in his own delusions of what could never be. Aziraphale had been perfectly clear about it in more than one occasion.

Crowley sighs. He just had to make bloody do and not get his knickers in a twist over things he can't control. 

He uncurls from the couch where he'd spent the last few hours, much like a serpent would do. His limbs creak in protest but he pays no mind. 

It's already late, and Aziraphale is probably busy with the novel he got earlier in the mail. A cup of cocoa in one hand, comfortably tucked away in the cottage's small library; Crowley can picture him perfectly and his heart swells at the thought. 

_Better go to bed now._

He drags his feet over the wooden floor, but the moment he reaches the last staircase, the air is punched out of his gut.

Aziraphale wasn't reading. The angel is definitely _not_ reading as of right now. 

"Crowley! I thought you were already in bed."

A shallow breath passes Crowley's lips. And then another. Suddenly every inch of his skin is boiling, his heart hammering away so hard he's sure the angel can hear it.

Aziraphale moves his lips but Crowley isn't registering any sound. All he does is see and all he sees is the principality in front of him. The very much _naked_ principality in front of him, partially covered by a ridiculous towel. 

It'd been centuries-- _no_ , millenia since the fashionable greek nudity was in style and Crowley's brain scrambles to restart. 

"Crowley?"

"Ngk."

"Are you all right, my dear?"

 _Yes, yes, say yes!_

"No."

"No? What you mean no?" Aziraphale's bright blue eyes glint under furrowed brows. 

_A whole eternity of this_ ? Scrapping at illusions that vanished before his eyes? Faking an intimacy that just isn't there? Wanting and longing and _yearning_ , all burning like molten lead inside him. 

Consuming him. 

Devouring him. 

He’s cracking. And _fuck_ , it hurts. 

"I mean no, Aziraphale." It froths from his throat in a slight waver. 

Crowley turns on his heels, wishing to find an escape. Wanting to unfurl his wings and take off. Anywhere but here.

"Wait! Crowley!" 

Aziraphale's hand finds his forearm and something inside him snaps. He whirls on the angel, clenching his jaw, decided not to let his eyes wander.

"The least you could do is stop tempting me!" He groans. A raw plea.

There. Finally.

Aziraphale's brows shot up. "Tempting you?"

"Yes!"

"Tempting you into what exactly?" 

"You're really going to make me say it?" It's just a formality. Because he bloody damn knows he's bound to answer. "You're really going to make me say it! Bloody hell, okay fine!"

His eyes are drawn to the bare skin in front of him, glistening under what he supposes are the remnants of a late night shower. Soft blonde hair dusting over arms, chest, belly--

Crowley can't take it. 

He miracles Aziraphale into his regular clothes, before continuing his tirade.

"I'm completely fine with this- this- thing.” _What a lie_ , his brain hurls at him, but he ignores it. “Being your friend, our side, blah blah blah, but honestly angel, I can't keep up with this--" His breath catches in his throat, intensity churning in his chest, rising, _rising_... "You're making me lose the heaven out of my fucking mind!"

Aziraphale recoils a step but his expression doesn't falter. "Language, dear," he says by the force of habit.

"Sorry," Crowley says truthfully, and he really is. "You're making me lose the hell out of my fucking mind!" He heaves a deep, sad sigh. The place where Aziraphale touched him leaves a ghostly tingle. 

Silence hovers over the aisle for a few seconds, filling every crease. It feels like a long, long time. 

"Look, angel," Crowley follows, because if he stops, he doesn’t think he can find his voice again. "I think this wasn't our greatest idea. I'm just-- I think I'll go back to London." He starts moving towards the stairs, brushing past Aziraphale and would his heart stop with the throbbing? _Seems like a no_. "Can come visit you still..." he continues, "If you want to- Will miracle my stuff up Mayfair, don't wanna deal with moving out again."

"Crowley wait!"

Aziraphale grasps his forearm with much more force than he expected. Desperation glazing over his movements, but Crowley can’t see that much. 

" _What_ Aziraphale?"

"I'm sorry, dear boy," the angel says, wringing his hands, his throat bobbing as he swallows. "I think- well, I think I have to be honest with you."

Crowley arches a brow and waits. Nothing happens. 

"So?" 

"Yes, yes, off I go." Aziraphale smiles, but it's a nervous smile. All in all, the angel looks as if he's about to faint. But he pushes forward. "You see, well, all those _accidents_ , the ottoman, your magnificent sculpture, this right now, well, those weren't _exactly_ accidents."

Crowley blinks. "What?"

"I may have been- _Oh dear me_ ." Aziraphale wrings his hands even harder and clears his throat. “I may have been trying to _makeyoutakethebait_."

Crowley knows Aziraphale is trying to tell him something. Something important. But he’s not getting it.

“You _what_?”

“The bait. _Me_. Ta- da!” Aziraphales gives an uneasy little titter. 

Crowley’s brain goes blank. Something, something, _bait_ , something. He tilts his head, gut clenching--

“ _What?_ ” 

“You see, I'm terrible with words, I'm afraid,” Aziraphale mutters as an apology.

“Angel, you _own_ a bookshop.”

“Yes, yes I know it sounds rather odd,” Aziraphale briskly says. “As I was saying, I'm just terrible at wording things when those things involve my feelings regarding _you_.”

Crowley’s stomach drops to the floor. He shudders, then gasps, all of its own corporation’s bloody accord. 

“So I said to myself,” Aziraphale continues taking a step forward. “What if I showed you? What if I showed you I'm over the fear of-- _celerity_?”

The demon gulps. “Angel, I'm getting some mixed signals here, you're gonna-- gonna have to be more specific,” he stammers with a voice that’s barely a whisper. 

Aziraphale shakes his head, with a sunny smile on his face. “That I love you, you silly old serpent!”

"Angel, you love everything, it's literally in your job description-- the tiny letters." Crowley rolls his shoulders in a shrug as his whole world tilts on the absence of an answer. 

Slowly, Aziraphale raises a hand and cups Crowley's cheek, thumbing the sharp outline of his jaw. "No, dearest, not like I love _you_."

The air grows thick with anticipation. Crowley stands still, and little by little, doubts and fears, and a good amount of pain start to eddy away. 

" _May I kiss you now_?" Aziraphale whispers. 

It's kind of funny how the brain works. Crowley has toyed with the idea of this exact same moment for the last millenia - maybe even longer - and not even _once_ it has occurred to him he was going to be rendered speechless. 

“I think--” Crowley whispers, trying to recover control over muscles and nerves that had gone haywire inside him. “Dunno. What you think?” 

Aziraphale reaches for his sunglasses, putting them away in his pocket. He's smirking. 

Smirking.

As if he knew what was coming.

 _The smug bastard_. 

Crowley leans in the whole offending inch parting them, resting his fingertips along Aziraphale's jaw, feeling a warm, firm pressure at his waist. Pulling him forward. He soon feels the angel's lips against his own, a playful tongue sliding along the seams of his mouth, and even when he knows what's coming, he freezes for a second. Overwhelmed to his toes. Crowley kisses the angel back, soft and chaste, and Aziraphale pets through the demon's hair.

This.

Crowley feels an ember lit at the pit of his stomach with every little sigh Aziraphale gives, until all of him is ablaze. And he takes his time. Losing himself in Aziraphale's lips, his breath, his touch, in the promises of an era.

Eventually Crowley breaks away, just enough to look into those bright blue eyes and something quivers in his chest at the sight of the angel's lips, red and swollen.

"So ah-" he finally is able to say, foreheads touching, "nice job. The tempting, uh, you know."

There's mirth slithering in Aziraphale's eyes. "What can I say, my dear, I've always admired your work."

A Cheshire grin breaks on Crowley's face. "Wicked, wicked angel, you're truly, utterly devious," he says, "Hell material you are." 

"Crowley!"

His name comes out as a stiffled yelp because Crowley's kissing Aziraphale again and it's just as intoxicating as the first time. The way the angel shudders in his arms, soft hands cupping his cheek, his taste making everything inside Crowley melt away.

He won't never get used to it.

"I love you Aziraphale."

"And I love you my dear," the angel says and the demon's knees feel like jello. 

He won't get used to hear that either.

And yet.

And yet he has all the eternity to try.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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